


Quill and steel. Chronicles of a rebellion

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU-Winged Elves, At some point explicit sex, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: During a battle against the Dark God, Fingolfin is seriously injured. Faced with the possibility of losing him, Fëanor discovers new feelings for his half-brother.I think it could be said that this is an Angels-AU.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 31
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

The explosion shakes the ship, forcing the crew to hold on to cables and tacks to stay on their feet. Some roll down the deck when the Flagship leans on its side and at least one of the soldiers - a youngster whose wings barely pluck - falls over the railing, rushing into the void.

Below the ship, the dark tide of the Balrogs' flames is agitated, devouring everything that falls into it. The wind full of electricity lashes the sides of the ship: flying in these conditions is madness and Fëanor curses between teeth again and again while looking with the gaze Caranthir and Amrod’s ship. Instead, his keen sight distinguishes the blue and silver banner of his half-brother.

Fingolfin has been fast, crossing the enemy fleet like a knife that cuts through meat. At this point in war, Fëanor is not surprised by the war tactics of his brother and ally: he now knows what the boy spent all those hours in the Archives.

A new explosion waves the Royal Ship. Fëanor barks insults to the Valar and that is when he feels it.

The presence.

The power that overwhelms and at the same time, the call that pulls his soul.

Fëanor looks up and encounters the dark figure standing above the battle. Above his head, the three jewels shine, illuminating and burning.

Anger chokes any other feeling in the High King of the Deep Elves. He squeezes the hilt of his straight sword and throws himself forward, ready to defy the cosmic winds in order to reach the enemy.

"Father, no!" Maedhros orders, throwing himself at him.

Fëanor shakes the hand of his eldest son - that of meat - and tries to continue; but Maedhros bends over himself, squeezing in a hug. Fëanor forgets the silmarils for a second.

"Fingon," the prince muses with a disheveled face.

Before Fëanor asks, Maglor shouts next to him and the elven king turns around.

His body freezes. He knows the figure that flies directly to the Dark God. He knows the sparkles of that white armor. He knows those blue and silver wings.

The star figure attacks Morgoth. There is a twinkle, a tremor ... and a scream that carries all the despair of the world.

“Father!”

It's Fingon

Fëanor contemplates still how Fingolfin falls.


	2. Chapter 2

When Fëanor crosses the gallery, all eyes follow him. The High King is aware of this: he enjoys the fascination that his presence causes. Not even among the White People is there one that can match the beauty of the son of the Embroiderer, Finwë's first wife. 

It has always been this way: beauty and genius make Fëanor the elf that everyone wants, that everyone admires, that everyone envies.

But today the king does not pay attention to the looks that follow in his footsteps. Any other day, Fëanor would have stopped to talk to someone - one of his loyalists -, he would have delayed in the salons, showing off his attractiveness like a tiger sports his muscles. But not today.

When the king disappears, the conversations revolve around the recent battle.

News fly - like those who carry them, no doubt. Everyone already knows about the High Prince's attack on the Dark God. Everyone repeats the story of how Morgoth retired, wounded in full face by Fingolfin's ice sword. Everyone repeats the story of how the prince fell ...

Fëanor enters the room without announcing. Irimë turns her head over her shoulder and with a gesture, says goodbye to the other healers.

The king waits for being alone with her to move towards his half-sister.

“How is it going?” inquires.  
"Bad," she shrugs. "We had ... We had to amputate."

Fëanor holds his breath for a second. His family is breaking apart, falling apart around him, from the day he threatened his brother with his sword. Finwë, Amras, Argon, Maedhros ... and now ...

"Are you going to see him?"

The king frowns slightly at his sister's question. He nods with a barely noticeable movement; but Irimë already turns around and walks in the direction of the curtains that divide the room in two.

Fëanor follows her.

On the other side of the curtain, Fingolfin floats in the healing fog, sustained by the energy of the power-imbued pillars. He wears the torso covered by a bandage that crosses the chest and his left wing touches the ground with the tip, relaxed. The right wing is not there.

The breath drowns in the king's throat.

Amputate.

Fingolfin is a warrior. How will he fight if he can't fly?

Fëanor remembers the day that Fingolfin summoned his wings for the first time. He remembers that he was just an infant with short legs and jet curls, eager to show his wings to his older brother. It was a true vision. And a prodigy. Most elves need a hundred years to create their wings and Fingolfin achieved it in his first decade.

Fëanor approaches his half-brother and slides his fingers along the lax wing. The blue and silver feathers curl between his fingers: they are soft despite the length.

Fëanor’s wings themselves are red, gold and black - the wings of a king who wants revenge. The king has always seen with fascination the peaceful color of Fingolfin's wings; but it is only appearance: Fëanor has seen his half-brother launch into combat many times already - a death star burning the field. No more.

Now Fëanor's fingers trace through the bandage the wound that hides the canvas. Fingolfin does not shudder, does not complain, does not wake up ... and Fëanor finally dares to look for his face.

Straight black hair descends to the ground without ornaments and Fëanor tangles his hand in it. He leans in while bringing the handful of hair to his lips.

"Wake up," he orders in a whisper.


	3. Chapter 3

Fëanor crosses the room without stopping. He even opens his wings and quickly crosses the meters that separate him from the door, violating the Valar's ban on flying inside the Flying City.

With an effort, he lands before opening the door and closes the wings behind him, almost trying to hide them.

Fingolfin is at the window-door. A light robe falls softly around his firm body, suggesting more than covering. Silver bangles surround his ankles and wrists. His only wing just folds before resting on the floor, as if dead.

"Nolofinwë," the king calls. “You got up at last.”

Fingolfin does not turn to see him and Fëanor advances until he reaches his side. Before surrounding him, his eyes go to the lifeless wing, remembering how many times he sank his face between the blue and silver feathers and breathed his brother's jasmine scent, wanting ...

The view of Fingolfin is fixed beyond the golden towers of the city.

“Lalwen has said that in a few days you can return to training. It has been calm these days: it seems that Morgoth was frightened by your madness.” A smile curves Fëanor's mouth: Fingolfin doesn't move. “Skirmishes on the Edge; but Fingon and Maedhros solved it easily ...”  
"They should cut both."

Fëanor is silent, hoping he didn't hear that.

Fingolfin lets out a still sigh and finally turns in place, away from his half-brother.

"A single wing, what is it for?" He continues talking without emotion. “It's a hindrance that won't let me move on the floor.”  
"Your left wing is healthy. There is no reason to…”  
"A hindrance. I will not get another to keep it company. I will not fly again. I will not fight in heaven again.”  
“Nolofinwë ...”  
"I want it to be cut. I want it to…”  
“Lalwen never…”  
“There are hundreds of healers among our people. Lalwen is just one more. I will find who does it.” He turns in front of Fëanor, crossing his arms over his chest. “And then I will leave. At the Edge. To the Outer Lands.”

Until today, Fëanor did not know that the chest could break without bleeding. His breath gets stuck, writhes, burns.

"Will you abandon me?" He accuses him in a rattle of cornered beast.

Fingolfin observes him with those eyes that contain the blue of the night and the silver of the stars, an unusual combination of the eyes of his parents.

"I can't serve you anymore. I can no longer fight.”

“Your wings. It was your wing that you lost. You are still a warrior.”  
"A warrior who can't fly is a lie."  
“Your knowledge… your vision in the battles… You can be…”  
"I will not be an advisor. I will not be one of those who decide after a bureau the lives of those in the battlefield!” Replies with wild rage.

Immediately, Fingolfin seems to regret his start and deflects his face, looking around the room until his breathing stabilizes.

"I'll leave alone," he informs. "My children will continue to serve you. Fingon can take my place: he knows every tactic, every strategy ... and he’s a good complement for your children in battle. Turgon is one of the best engineers among our people and Aredhel has the loyalty of ...”  
"I forbid it!"

Fëanor's roar fills the air with sparks of electricity and heat. At his back, the wings curl and shake as if facing the cosmic winds.

Fingolfin's gaze stops a second in the sight of red and black feathers, blood and shadow, and then turns back outside, to the glass towers of the city that saw him born. For a moment, his surviving wing moves imperceptibly, as if responding to the challenge of those of his brother and king. He suppresses the attempt to deploy without disturbing his icy expression.

“Did you hear me?“ Fëanor jumps towards him and grabs him by the shoulder, digging his fingers into the flesh, unleashing a flash of pain. “You will not go anywhere. Your place is at my side. We will avenge our father's death together. We will destroy Morgoth ...”  
"I will not fight again. And when I have cut the remaining wing, I cannot remain in Tirion. You know it.”

Fëanor is reflected in the cold blue eyes. Understanding creeps into his soul like the icy water of the North Sea where they will be shipwrecked once at the start of the war. And the cold mixes with his blood until it is almost painful.

It is the law of the Valar: those who are not able to summon the wings cannot remain on the Blessed Earth. Those who cease to be Eldar must leave Aman, depart to the Outer Lands. Fëanor has seen it before: young people unable to summon wings, mutilated soldiers, punished blasphemers ... all banished to the Outer Lands, beyond the Edge, outside the protection of the Valar dome, within reach of creatures of darkness , from nightmares, from urks.

"They can't," he declares, panting, drowning in anger and hatred.  
"They can," replies his half-brother serenely. “It’s the Law.”  
"Damn the law! I won’t allow it! I will not let you get banished!”

He walks away from Fingolfin to walk like a caged beast.

No. No one is going to take away Fingolfin. Nobody is going to tear away what belongs to him. Nobody is going to…

"You are the High King."

Fingolfin's voice is dispassionate: so different from when he shouts orders in battle! And Fëanor shudders because he knows what he says, he will be right.

"You will do what is best for our people. Obey the Law, be obedient to the Valar ... keep our people protected ... it is your obligation as sovereign.”  
"I have an obligation to you as ... as a brother." The word chokes in his mouth and Fëanor is aware of the mocking flash in the other's blue eyes.  
"I feel terribly tempted to make an unpleasant comment right now," Fingolfin confesses with that chink of humor that brings back memories of work and learning evenings, nights of laughter and music, days of innocence and vanity. “But it seems enough to remind you that the moment you became High King, everything else went into the background. You can't think about your family or yourself: you don't have that right. Also, you shouldn't worry about me: I have made my decision before even considering the Valar’s Law.”

Fëanor knows that insisting is nonsense and a waste of time. Clenching his fists between the folds of his robe, he reports in a distant tone:

"I'll talk to Lalwen. She is our best healer. If she does not agree, I will order her to appoint the best of her subordinates for the task.”  
"Thank you, Majesty."

Fëanor responds to Fingolfin's bow with stiffness and turning on his heels, leaves the room in long strides. As soon as the door closes behind him, he again violates the laws, taking a low flight to get away as quickly as possible.

Fingolfin returns to the window, dragging the wing behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Fingolfin sleeps. The wing rests to one side, relaxed and scattered on the mattress until it touches the floor. Tilion's light passes through the silk curtains and draws the contour of the face slightly contracted.

Fëanor contemplates him from the end of the bed, hugging the post carved in the shape of a woman-tree. His eyes run through the aquiline profile, the lines of the arm that rests on the comforter, the hair gathered in a loose braid, the wing ... **the wing. **

He departs from the pole and surrounds the bed. Slowly, he drops to the carpet with geometric patterns, kneeling beside the feathered limb – quilts that in the nightlight are moon daggers. He extends a hand and sinks his fingers between the feathers, squinting.

Fëanor knows that at another time Fingolfin would already be awake and pressing a dagger in his throat before frowning at him and returning to the attitude of ‘ice prince’. He knows that the heavy sleep so unusual in the High Prince is a consequence of medication, proof that the pain does not leave the convalescent's body yet.

Lalwen has refused to hear anything about amputating the healthy wing. Fëanor recalls the anger of his surviving sister, her rage ... and her crying. Lalwen has become strong in the war - much more after Findis’s fall protecting Alqualondë. Lalwen is, in her own right, a Lady of the Deep Elves and her hands, made to heal, have taken too many lives already. But today Fëanor has seen her collapse for the first time. Fëanor knows that Lalwen loves Fingolfin with the desperation of those who cling to the past and that she will never resign herself to letting go, losing him ... somehow, he understands that feeling.

‘You can't allow it!’ His sister howled. ‘You can't let him make that madness!’

But she, like him, knows that Fingolfin is right: sooner or later, the Valar will remember that Fingolfin, despite having made Morgoth run away, can no longer fly. He is no longer worth living in the Flying City.

Fëanor bows his head until his nose sinks through the feathers. Feel the tickle on his cheeks, on his eyelids, on his lips and move to ascend along the wing to the point where it joins the back. He presses his mouth against the exact point where the feathers become warm and smooth skin. Slowly, he stands to maneuver better and slide the lips over the spine to the other shoulder blade.

The scar causes chills when it finds his mouth. He does not move away. Sweetly, he pushes Fingolfin until he lies face down and slowly stretches over him, holding himself on his elbows and knees so as not to wake him up.

Kisses the wound still too recent. He kisses it in full length - from top to bottom and back to the beginning. Licks the marked meat, feel the metallic taste of the blood on the skin and his heart shakes, twists ... goes mad.

Fingolfin shudders, flexes an arm and turns halfway to observe him through the low lashes.

"Curufinwë ..." he whispers numbly. “What do you do…? Did something happen? ... An attack? What…?”

Fëanor shakes his head, denying and rests a hand on his cheek to support him as he descends.

Fingolfin does not reject him. Obedient - perhaps too much asleep yet - opens his mouth and accepts the tongue that slides inside. He gives himself to the sinuous game without hesitation, showing Fëanor that there is certainly very little coldness in him when it comes to kissing.

The High King gasps against the tongue that seeks him. He stands to leave room for the other to accommodate; but finally he has to pull away when Fingolfin's wing is caught between his body and the mattress. While helping him to relocate on his back - the left wing now resting on the opposite side, too open and noticeable - Fëanor realizes that his half-brother blinks repeatedly and studies him with increasing attention.

When he lies down comfortably and Fëanor continues to hover over him, Fingolfin rests both hands on his bare chest, palms wide open.

“What are you doing?” demands in a hoarse whisper.

"I've missed you," admits the king, lowering his head until their breath intermingles. “All these years, I've missed you, Nolofinwë.”

Fingolfin does not move his hands away, keeping a barrier, without moving away; but without giving in.

“What you are looking for is against the Law, Fëanáro.”

“Nobody will know.”

Fëanor pants impatiently and presses the lower part of his body against his brother. His sex is hard and swollen. Blood burns in his veins, stings his skin and soul. The scent of jasmine is intertwined with the essence of copper and his stomach is crushed with anxiety. It is the first time he feels the need to bite and savor, like an animal, like a nightmare.

"We'll know." Fingolfin's voice returns to reality, to sanity.

Fëanor looks at those blue eyes and know that he will never let go.

"You will leave Tirion," he reminds him in a thick voice. “And I –I want this. _I want you. _What do I care about the Valar’s Laws in exchange for feeling you at least once? I want your smell on my skin when you're gone. I want your taste in my tongue every time I look at your children. I want to know –I want to remember your voice when I fill you with my body.”

He moves one hand to tangle it in the almost undone braid. Fingolfin's eyelashes tremble and his cheekbones are tinged with the violet tone that betrays his Vanyarin heritage. Fëanor bites his lower lip, filling his lungs with the scent of repressed desire. He assaults the closed mouth. Bites and sucks. He moves to the neck, to the naked ear, to the smooth shoulder.

"My prince," he growls between bites and kisses. “My warrior. Mine.”

Fingolfin breathes in his half-open mouth. The thin, fibrous body waves beneath the High King. The legs are intertwined, seeking better access for their sexes to touch each other through the fabrics.

Fëanor runs with kisses the face of his half-brother, descends down the throat that arches back, follows the line between the ribs to the firm abdomen, ascends again to lick a dark nipple.

The prince is naked and Fëanor slides a hand to caress between a thigh and the body, drawing the union, not getting close enough to the sex that trembles and waves between them. He licks the nipple, hold it between his teeth and suck with the delight of a newborn. Fingolfin groans hoarsely and tangles his hands in the silk shirt and pulls, eager to feel Fëanor's burning skin.

The High King of the Deep Elves stands to observe the blushing face of the other. With his eyelids low, Fingolfin breathes through the parted lips as his fists pull the garment that covers his brother's torso. Fëanor leans down to kiss him violently - on his back, the wings tighten, tense, contained.

Fingolfin's fingers tear the cloth, undressing and Fëanor holds over him with one hand, panting, when it is now the younger who licks along the throat and descends down his chest, lingering on the nipples while his hands work on leather pants.

Fëanor keeps his eyes open, fixed on the headboard decorated with stars and waves. His body shudders when his cock is finally free and Fingolfin's fingers run all the way, delaying in drawing veins and folds, playing in the hole that already sweats liquid pearls. He groans loudly and the tremor of pleasure and desire runs from the root of his hair to the bristling feathers of his wings. With an effort, he pulls away and catches his brother's hands. They kiss and Fëanor growls in the avidity of Fingolfin, aware that he is not the only one who wants to violate the Laws of the Valar.

However, Fingolfin remains more reserved: he covers his mouth with one hand when Fëanor is between his thighs and devours his sex, almost awkwardly, too anxious. After a moment, his hips shake on their own, ramming into the moist warmth of his brother’s mouth. At the same time, Fëanor's fingers explore his entrance.

Fingolfin bends backwards, tangles a hand in the king's hair and gasps against the palm that he is now about to bite. His skin shudders and he knows he's close - so close! – that he puts his hand away to groan a warning; but he already spills in the possessive mouth. Fëanor swallows as fast as he can, filling himself with the taste and smell, then licking until he gets every thread of semen. When he stands on his knees, his gaze goes to the blue and silver wing extended on the bed: the member moves, stretching and contracting, imitating the movements of fingers that will curve at the top of ecstasy ... and the feathers shine on the darkness.

The king looks away from the lonely wing and with determination, runs his hands under Fingolfin's thighs, raising him from the mattress for better access.

There is a moment of rejection, of rebellion, while Fingolfin tenses, hisses between his teeth and clings to the sheets to force himself to open to the invasion. Fëanor restrains himself, moving slowly, clenching his teeth, staring into the closed eyes of the other. Breathing agitated, he stops, recedes until only the tip is inside and then sinks at once to the hilt. Fingolfin is unable to contain the groan that leaves his lips and Fëanor smiles like a predator.

The rhythm of his lovemaking is brutal, without delicacies. Both of them are warriors, not courtly dandies or ululant Vanyarin singers. Fingolfin returns each kiss with passion, with teeth; every caress with hunger, with nails. Fëanor marks him - with his mouth, with his hands -, he pushes deeper into him, forcing him to surround his waist with one leg. The bed trembles with their movements.

Fingolfin nails in Fëanor's back and throws his head back, cursing. His wing moves and instinctively, surrounds the king's torso, hugging, claiming. The climax paints pale lines on his chest.

Fëanor thrusts once ... twice. His wings open, powerful, tearing the diaphanous curtains that surround the bed. His seed fills the body of his lover.

Through the eyelashes, Fingolfin observes his brother, the High King of the Noldor, standing between his thighs, still filling him with the throbbing cock, the majestic wings spread throughout his wingspan, red, black and gold feathers shaking with the waves of power that run through the powerful body, black hair falling to the hips, scrambled: it is a beautiful and terrible image. And Fingolfin feels that he could come again, that he will never tire of contemplating him ... and he almost regrets his decision.

Fëanor leans down to rest his forehead on his brother's. Slowly, their wings adjust to form a dome that covers them both, enclosing them, protecting them from reality, from the world. He shudders when fingers caress his chin and opens to receive the soft kiss that fills his mouth. Still in the mists of orgasm, he feels his heart tighten: he knows that Fingolfin is saying goodbye.


	5. Chapter 5

With the plans deployed in front of him, Fëanor studies every detail. The thin, curved object extends on the sheet like a knife designed to cut life and wind. In small print, firm, are detailed dimensions and materials for each section.

A discreet knock on the door does not remove the High King from his abstraction. Fëanor keeps checking the numbers and repeating calculations when a one leafe of the double door opens and Maedhros enters with a light step.

Maedhros' red and black wings do not touch the ground while approaching his father and sovereign. Surprisingly, during the years of captivity, Morgoth did not decide to remove the elf's wings: perhaps because he wanted to have one of the Eldar at his mercy and only keeping his appendages would Maedhros remain one of them. When Fingon rescued him, he only had to cut his right hand. Although the Crown Prince's wings were damaged, they only needed rest and the healing arts to recover their former splendor.

Maedhros stops by Fëanor and waits for a few minutes. Finally, his gaze descends to the planes and frowns as he identifies what they represent. Unconsciously, he closes the mechanical hand that replaces the one he lost in his rescue.

“Father…?” call cautiously.

"I heard you come in," declares the king and slides a finger along the line that stretches until it curves to be thin. “What do you think?”

Maedhros does not lower the view he has set in his profile.

“It's a wing. A metal wing.”  
"That's right," he nods, proudly. “It has taken me a while to find the exact measurements and I still have to work on a scale model; but I count on having it ready in a week ... or less! Long before Morgoth returns.”  
“He knows?”

Maedhros does not need to clarify who he means.

Fëanor denies with an almost childish smile.

“It will be a surprise. He will have to train a little to learn how to use it: I tried to make the measurements the same weight as the original; but it's a little hard to say now ...”  
“Fingolfin will not accept. No matter how perfect, he will not accept this wing instead of the one he lost. He is determined to leave.”

Fëanor is tempted to ask, to find out how much Fingon has said to his husband; but he restrains himself. Nothing Fingon has said will be harder than hearing it from Fingolfin himself.

"Did you come just to talk about Fingolfin?"

"They are beginning to speak. In the court. Some of the most loyal to the Valar begin to question whether Fingolfin -if it will follow the same fate as the others that ...”

"Nolofinwë is High Prince!" replied the king sharply, turning in front of his firstborn. “He is the General of our armies! If it wasn't for him, half of our people would have died in the First Battle! If it was not for him…!”

"You won't let him go, right?"

Fëanor stops, panting, at Maedhros’s words. Leave? Fingolfin? He will build a perfect wing, a wing capable of cutting off his enemies and raising him back to the heavens! He will make him the most powerful warrior of the songs! Let him go? Never.

Maedhros stands tall, clenching his lips. The silver eyes of the High King shine like stars of destiny.

Fëanor stepped out. The wings tense behind his back, ready to unfold at any moment, powerful and threatening. With a push he opens the double doors of the healing rooms and enters without stopping, ignoring the servants who bend until they put the torso parallel to the ground.

Irimë turns to find the look of her older brother and hurries to get in his way. Fëanor doesn't notice her paleness or the trembling of her hands that she tends to stop him. The female's wings unfold slightly - a shiver of lavender and white feathers betraying the tension contained in the slim body.

“Fëanor…”

“How could you?” he demands between his teeth. “Why did not you call me…?”

"Denying was no use," she shakes her head. “He would have gone with another healer, another surgeon ... He's right: a single wing wouldn't take him away from exile and prevent him from moving ...”  
“I fixed it!” roars Fëanor. “I had already solved it! But you spoiled it!”  
“Fix it? Do you think you can grow his wings back?” teases his sister, with too much bitterness “What are you? A Vala?”

Fëanor bites his lower lip, rabidly. He does not confess his project; instead, in a hoarse voice, he declares:

"Fingolfin won't leave Tirion." 

Without waiting for an answer, he moves the female away and goes to the next room.

This time, Fingolfin is sitting on one of the metal beds. Without wings, he looks much younger and Fëanor almost chokes on his own breath. Without the distraction of the magnificence of the blue and silver appendages, all the attention goes to the prince's face: for some reason, he seems almost ... naked.

It is as if he saw him for the first time, understands the High King as he approaches him.

Fingolfin's blue eyes are fixed on his half-brother.

“Why?”

Fingolfin does not move. The bandage covers his torso and the black hair curls at the top of the head, undressing the alabaster throat.

“I'll be gone tomorrow. When the effect of anesthetics has passed.”

Fëanor stands tall, taking a breath.

"I never said I would let you go."

Finally the High Prince shows some emotion: he frowns and his eyes flash.

"You know I can't stay."

"You'll fly again. I will make sure of it. Together, we will tear my silmarils off Morgoth Bauglir's forehead and avenge our father. Side to side.”

“No.”

With effort that contradicts his determination, Fingolfin stands up. He steps in the direction of his brother.

"I can't stay," he repeats, "and you know it."

Fëanor holds his gaze and lets out all the desire, the passion, the longing ... Fingolfin goes back one step, to lean on the cot.

“I cannot let you go. And you know it.”

The High King takes a breath and with a voice that carries all the majesty of the crown he inherits from his father, dictates:

"Nolofinwë Finwion, High Prince of the Noldor, you are forbidden to leave the royal palace.You will remain confined to your chambers while it is my will. Any attempt, yours or a third party, to violate this order will be considered high treason.”


	6. Chapter 6

The High King is not visible. This is what the servants say. War reports are delivered to the Crown Prince and administrative issues are handled by Fingon and Caranthir. The absence of Fingolfin in the Council is the most notable of the losses: without his guidance, the Noldor argue more than they act. Maedhros constantly faces power struggles - never for the throne, of course; but while Fingolfin was there, nobody dared to raise their head more than they should. Fëanor's disinterest contributes to the restlessness among his subjects. One question weighs on all the mouths: will Fingolfin be banished, as the Valar Law mandates? Or will Fëanor once again go against them?

Fëanor ignores the rumors, the quiet riots, the restlessness ... Locked up in his workshop he works not in one; but in two wings of steel. He has done and undone the work so many times that his hands tremble. The dream has fled, leaving dark marks under his silver eyes. Once a day, Maglor arrives at the workshop to inform him of what happened outside; but Feanor barely listens.

"Fingolfin ...?" He asks sometimes. “You've seen him? How is it going?”

Maglor always has the same answer: Fingolfin has not changed his mind.

Finally, after weeks of labor, Fëanor achieves the indicated weight, the proper curvature, the correct edge. A slight pull on the mechanism and the wing unfolds, the feathers like ice daggers, a threat and a promise.

The silver eyes of the High King shine with madness, in ecstasy. One more and Fingolfin will rise in the sky, above gods and elves, more powerful than any warrior, more lethal than death itself.

It is then that Maglor arrives, announcing the presence of a Valar messenger.

Eonwë is and always has been the most imposing of Valar's servers, the most similar to them. He is also the closest to the Eldar. The light is absorbed by his unique pair of wings and returned in a dance of multicolored sparkles. Although of greater stature, the Herald shows the same appearance of the Children of Ilúvatar: sharp features, skin touched by the light of the Trees, eyes like stars ... and yet, he is still as inhuman as his masters.

Fëanor searches inside all the urbanity he once possessed to greet the messenger, repeating phrases that have long since lost all meaning to him.

"Hail, Fayánaro Noldóran," answers Eonwë in a metallic voice, without inflection, without nuances, an echo of words spoken on the heights of Ilmaren.

The king clenches his fist on the throne. No need to ask: he knows the reason for this visit. _But he asks._

"What do we owe you to honor us with your presence, Herald of Súlimo?"

The light is concentrated in the clear eyes of the Maia, without being returned in flashes this time.

“Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the Dome of the World and Sovereign of Arda, sends his regards. Our lord has observed with joy how the Dark Enemy was rejected and the days of calm that were granted to us with your effort and that of your people. Our lord has contemplated with regret the losses that victory cost.”

"Ah," lets Fëanor escape.

"But our lord is worried," Eonwë continues without emotion. “It has been weeks since Arakáno was injured and his wing should be amputated. Rumors have reached Taniquetil that the once Prince of the House of Noléme has lost his two wings. However, Arakáno remains on the grounds of the Floating City. Our lord wonders if the Noldóran will not take action with the rebel.”

Anger, rage, pain squirm in Fëanor's chest, like fire snakes, like bubbling lava ... and it explodes.

The laugh of the High King baffles the Court. Eonwë blinks slowly - his crystalline eyes changing hue for the first time.

Fëanor laughs with his head back, the gold and ruby necklace fluttering around his marble throat, the raven-like hair spilling from the grip of the crown of pure gems.

"Rebel," the king finally repeats, staring at his messenger like mercury lakes. “My brother? Fingolfin ... a rebel? Fingolfin is a prisoner in the palace for his own welfare. Like Noldóran and **brother**, it is my obligation to ensure that High Prince Nolofinwë Finwion leaves our territory in full control of his faculties ... or is it suggesting ‘our lord’ to condemn my father's son to death instead of exile? Have ‘our lord’ forgotten that it was that prince whom he accused of rebel who wounded Morgoth and forced him to retire? Don't you think, Herald, that he should be thanking **him** the ‘days of calm’?”

Eonwë goes back to the glow of the elf's gaze. There is power in Fëanor and the Ainur know it. For years, Fëanor's power has been contained, tied with short reins ... but now, the force that dammed him seems gone. And the Ainur know it: Fingolfin is - has always been - the rein that binds Míriel's son.

“Our Lord only reminds you that an elf without wings is no longer an Elda”, says the messenger.

Fëanor smiles like a wolf.

"I could never forget it, Herald. Tell _your lord_ that no elf without wings will remain in the Flying City.”

Eonwë frowns slightly; but he responds only with a bow and leaves the room.

The silence follows hiss withdrawal. Fëanor sinks his fingers into the throne's arm, tearing the crimson velvet.

Fingolfin, standing behind the glass window, observes the incandescent meteor in which the Valar’s messenger transforms to leave Mindon Eldalieva. He knows what he has come to and knows that his hours on the earth that saw him born are counted. Not even the ‘spirit of fire’ would rebel against the Valar.


	7. Chapter 7

"You asked to see me. I'm here.”

Fëanor opens his arms slightly, causing the wide sleeves of the purple and gold robe to wave - his wings, on the other hand, remain tight behind him.

Fingolfin observes him without blinking and with the elegance of a swan, he bows - not too deep, not too arrogant: in the fair way between respect and challenge.

"You honor me, my lord," he says in a monotonous, courteous voice.

The king does not take his eyes off his half-brother. The absence of the wings has not diminished the haughty beauty of the eldest son of Indis: on the contrary, there is something challenging in the nakedness of his shoulders, in his slender neck, in braided hair resting on one shoulder, undressing an ear adorned with hoops silver.

"What do you want, Fingolfin?" inquires harshly, finally looking away. “I have things to do…”

"It's been a week since Eonwë's visit. How much more do you plan to delay your decision?”

"My decision is already made."

Fingolfin straightens his head, like a horse that flutters at the pull of the reins.

"You cannot rebel against the Valar."

A flash crosses Fëanor's silver eyes.

“I cannot? I cannot!?” he repeats in a roar. “Isn't Morgoth a Vala? Have we not fought him for a hundred years? Didn't you hurt him yourself? Haven't you made him hide since that day? Can't I rebel against the Valar? Are they not the same as him? Won't they suffer as Morgoth suffers?”

"Watch the words you say, Fëanáro," Fingolfin warns, stepping in his direction.

Fëanor frowns and clenches his jaw. He senses the tension in the way the other twitches his fist, in the way his eyes drift away as if he were afraid to discover that someone else heard.

"You are afraid," he says, his mouth crooked in a grimace of disdain. “You are afraid of them, of their punishment ... of their power. You are afraid. You, the most powerful of our warriors, the greatest of our military geniuses, are afraid.”

“Yes I’m afraid!” Fingolfin hisses between his teeth, moving forward until only one step separates him from his brother and king. “I'm scared for you, Fëanáro. Afraid of what they could do to you, the punishment they would impose on you. Manwë doesn't love you. He has never looked at you with good eyes ...”

"Something you took advantage of to ascend in his esteem."

“For you!” the High Prince explodes in the king's face. “For father’s sake. For our family. It was necessary for one of us to be obedient, to be the prince they expected from our House. It was necessary to attract Manwë and Varda's attention away from you.”

“Away from me?” Now Fëanor tilts his head with interest.

"Always so absorbed in yourself, isn't it, big brother?" Fingolfin scoffs without real humor. “Speaking aloud to leave the Flying City, to fly over the Edge, to return to the Outer Lands ...”

"You also wanted that once."

"But I want more for my children to be safe, for my family to be safe, for you to be safe! Yes, I was willing to become the prince whose father needed for them to ignore you, so that Manwë, Varda, Mandos ... stop worrying about the subversive one, who talked too much about dreams and projects.”

"I am High King."

"And it's something that they would have liked to avoid. They've been counting on you to die in the war, that you get carried away by a rage and succumb to the fire whips of the Balrogs or the claws of the Wargos. Now, they expect you to rebel, to go against the laws. Don't give them a reason to banish you, my brother. Don't let me be that motive.”

"And if it's not you, which one?" Fëanor explodes while grabbing him by the arms, bringing him closer to him. “What better reason for a rebellion ... for a war ... than you?” His words are a whisper against Fingolfin's closed lips. “I will not lose you. They won't force me to leave you. You are mine…”

“Do not…”

“I need you by my side.”

"You need me away from you," Fingolfin defends, turning his face to avoid the lips that manage to brush his chin, draw a line to his ear.

“Never. You took an oath, Nolofinwë, did you forget it? ‘You will guide and I will follow you’. That you said, with your hand in mine, your lips ...”

The memory of that day unleashes shivers on Fingolfin's skin. The day Fëanor became High King, also began the reconciliation between them, with the oath of Fingolfin, with a pronounced phrase, with intertwined hands, with Fingolfin's lips brushing his elder brother's cheek to promise ...

Before being aware of what he is doing, Fingolfin turns his head and finds Fëanor's mouth ajar.

A kiss ... and passion explodes. There is fire and electricity flowing between them. There is magic. There is power. Neither of them gives in: they conquer equally - they dominate, they invade ... they claim.

The red and black wings form a dome over them, hiding them from the world.

The air is still warm under the feathers of Fëanor, who leans down to deposit light kisses on Fingolfin's shoulder. The younger's face rests against his brother's chest, where the heart still beats irregularly. Their legs are intertwined and one hand of the king traces caresses on the other's bare hip.

"You have to let me go," says Fingolfin hoarsely.

"Let's not talk about it now, Nolvo," the king begs more than orders.

“It is necessary. If someone comes to suspect why you refuse to comply with the Law ...”

"And why do I refuse? According to you.”

He throws his head back to watch him. In the semi-light created by his own wings, the eyes of the High King flash like embers. Fingolfin lifts his eyelids slowly and faces his gaze firmly.

"Don't give them any more excuses to use against you. Not for ... this.”

“_This_. What is this, Nolofinwë? What is this for you? Because for me ... _this_ is everything. **You are everything**.”

Fingolfin closes his eyes, refusing to see the sincerity on his half-brother's face.

“Fëanáro…”

“Don’t. Do not talk anymore. Let's not talk more about this. It doesn't matter anymore ...”

“I am your brother. And, according to the Valar Law, I am no longer an Eldar. You cannot…”

"Nolvo," he takes his face to force him to look at him. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

He leans down and prevents Fingolfin from responding by kissing him slowly as he slides a hand down his back, caressing the scarcely noticeable scar where blue and silver feathers once sprouted.


	8. Chapter 8

Two weeks Fingolfin has waited - two weeks in which Fëanor has gone to his chambers, two weeks in which Fingolfin has tried to reason with his brother and in which Fëanor has silenced him with kisses, with anger, with desire, with despair. Two weeks ... and finally this morning, Fingolfin has seen through the glass window how the golden palanquin of the High King leaves the palace to take the crystal route to the Ring of Judgment.

The Valar have had enough of waiting. Manwë Súlimo's patience has run out and Fëanor has been called to Valimar, the one with many bells - worse: to the icy solemnity of the Ring of Judgment, before the stone and diamond thrones of the kings of the world - to answer for his disobedience .

Fingolfin calculates the time it will take for the palanquin to travel the long way. Two moons at a good pace, four or five if the storm that is announced is ahead. However, two days will be more than enough for an energy boat. It is a matter of leaving the palace and arriving at the hangar before the guards stationed at the door of his rooms notice his absence and give the alarm.

Fingolfin reviews in his mind what he knows by heart: at this time Fingon is at the barracks with Maedhros, Turgon has been reviewing the reconstruction works with Caranthir and Maglor for three days ... the rest of those close to fulfill tasks, do not rest. What is the risk? A sentry? A mechanic? None will dare to oppose Fingolfin, once High Prince and Commander of the Eldarin Army.

Thought and done is the same. Fingolfin unhooks the bolt from the window, pulls the sheet inked glass and leans on the windowsill to locate the nearest ledge in the tower's architecture. A few minutes later, the son of Indis - the brother of the King of the Noldor - descends the facade of the palace with the agility of a teenager.

It is not the first time he escapes the building in this way. Fingolfin was always a skilled climber, from his childhood, which once in the army made it easier for him to move across the deck of the ships and ascend to the top of the poles and sails. In less than ten minutes he lands on the ground without his boots echoing, flexing his legs. He hurries up in the direction of the hangar.

Thanks to Fëanor’s wit, who twenty years ago designed the watch-stones, there is a need for few soldiers moving around the place. The devices created by the High King control the skies and waters that flow well below the Flying City, attentive to any sighting of the Enemy.

Fingolfin crosses the hangar without finding a living soul and a part of him almost thanks the Valar for his good luck.

He is already next to the vehicle. This smaller, personalized model is the work of Curufin, designed for explorers and sappers. He has driven one on several occasions and only hopes that Fëanor has not taken the precaution of shielding the vehicles against his power mark.

He is astride the seat lined with dark leather and his palm resting on the glass hexagon when he understands that without his wings he no longer possesses the power of the Eldar to access the Songs of Power. Or so the Valar claim.

“Who's there? What are you doing? Your Highness!”

The youthful voice demands, inquires and falls to the most complete astonishment quickly. Fingolfin purses his mouth, curses under his teeth and presses his hand with full force, concentrating on spilling the power of his soul at that point.

“Your Highness!” the soldier shouts, hesitating between approaching him or running for help. “Highness, you can't ...! The High King said ... ordered ...! Commander, please!”

Fingolfin tilts his head on one shoulder, perceiving the noise of people approaching. The young man's screams have attracted attention. Sideways, he sees half a dozen gray and white-winged elves breaking into the hangar. He recognizes Glorfindel's too golden hair and the red band that crosses the chest of Erestor when the two launch in his direction, ignoring the laws that prohibit the flight, rising from the ground, stirring the air around them with the speed of the Warriors.

Power flows, explodes ... the vehicle roars, undulates and rises. Fingolfin lets out the air and without looking at his former subordinates, he leans over the seat while in his mind he traces the direct path to Valimar, to the Ring of Judgment, _to exile_.

Two days. Fingolfin has not stopped. Behind him, in the distance, the storm paints the sky red and lashes the Flying City of the Noldor. Before him, the Ring of Judgment rises like an eye of fire, like a watchman always alert.

The first thing he sees it is the bottom, rocky, with crystals that glow when Ithil's cold fire touches them as it rises. He does not stop until he flies to the same level as the golden arc that marks the access.

He descends from the vehicle at the same threshold. Only the Eldar can enter the Ring of Judgment; but Fingolfin doesn't think about the Laws while he crosses the arch and walks firmly to the center of the agora.

Fifteen thrones surround the esplanade. Fifteen thrones of stone and gems. Eight rise above the others: the Aratar seats - once there were nine; but one is broken, as if a giant hammer had fallen on it.

The thrones are empty with the naked eye; but Fingolfin feels the presence of the Valar just as he feels the power of the elves running in his veins.

"Finwë's son has come to us," declares a voice that dances in the wind. “However, it is not this son who was called by us.”

Fingolfin stares at Manwë's blue throne and gradually distinguishes the silhouette of an elf crowned with stars and clouds, with three pairs of wings fluttering behind him.

"Finwë's son has come," the elf says calmly. “Open the way to the Edge for me and do not take into account what those who love me may have said in hours of pain.”

"We will still wait for the son of Finwë that we had called," insists an icy, genderless voice.

The dark and silver silhouette of Varda rises on the throne: wings of golden fire envelop her. Fingolfin almost feels envious.

"My brother is not the one who violates the Laws by staying in Aman. It's me…”

“_Fayánaro_ might have something to say to that.”

Fingolfin shudders when Namo's mocking whisper caresses his neck. The Souls’ Keeper does not show himself, but his presence fills the place like the cold of winter, like the shadows of the night. If there is a Vala that Fingolfin fears and hates is Námo. For some reason, Fingolfin remembers now a hundred years ago, when that same mockery whisper replied to Fëanor: "Not the first to die."

There is movement behind Fingolfin, who guesses the arrival of the royal palanquin. Feel the power of Fëanor even before he descends and advances through the Ring, before he pronounces his name with surprise and anger.

“Nolofinwë! What are you doing here?” he claims.

Fingolfin spins in place ... and the air gets stuck in his lungs.

Namo's cruel laugh dances in his ears.

"Those who possess not wings will not be considered Eldar," declares the Souls’ Keeper aloud, like a terrible song that shakes the air and the earth. “Those who are not considered Eldar cannot remain on the Blessed Kingdom. Banishment is the destiny of those who have lost their identity, of those who have renounced their essence, rebelling against the Laws of the Valar. Banishment is the destiny of Finwë's children ... and of everyone who seconds them.”

Fingolfin does not listen. His eyes are fixed on Fëanor, who seems too fragile and naked without the bottom of his red and golden wings, without his wings of fire and revenge.

For the first time since the death of his father, tears run down the High Prince of the Noldor’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why - well, I **do** know why - but the more I advance in this story, the more I feel that I'm writing Lucifer's rebellion. It's just me, right?


	9. Chapter 9

"What have you done? What have you done?”

Words leave Fingolfin's lips in a painful whisper. His hands move nervously over his half-brother’s shoulders. He tugs on the robe as if he wanted to tear it off, bare his torso and verify that it is a lie, that Fëanor has found a stupid way to conceal his wings, to hide them.

"What have you done ?!” he explodes, hitting his king in the chest.

Fëanor's hands close around his wrists, without force, just holding him.

"We are free," he mutters. “Can't you see it, Nolvo? We're free! You and I ... we are free.”

"No," Fingolfin denies, shaking his head. “No, not that ... How could you? How could you, Fëanáro? Your children ... our people ... What will they do now? Morgoth ... the war ...”

"The war is also being waged on the Edge," replied Fëanor, with his head raised, without letting go. “You know it. There are elves beyond the Edge, in the Outer Lands. The Reluctant Ones also fight the Dark Vala. We will be together, my love. Together ... and free.”

He pulls on the wrists that he still holds to bring him closer. Fingolfin doesn't react until Fëanor's mouth covers his and voices of surprise rise up behind them.

They are still one step away from the arch that gives access to the Ring of Judgment. The Valar observe and judge; but the High King doesn't care as he kisses his partner.

“Aberration! Heresy! Sacrilege!”

The screams fill the air with cold and electricity. Fëanor growls against Fingolfin's lips and turns away to cast an angry glance at the Valar.

"We are no longer Eldar!" He shouts while he surrounds Fingolfin with an arm as if he wanted to protect him from any threat. “Your laws don't mean anything to me anymore, Manwë!”

"Ilúvatar's laws ...!" Varda begins to declaim instead of her husband.

"Ilúvatar is not among us to vouch for you! We are the Children of Ilúvatar, the Eruhíni! And you usurped the world from us!” Fëanor's eyes flare when he declares, with a fierce grimace. “But we will get it back. All that Ilúvatar destined for us will be ours.”

“Blasphemous!” a female voices screech and Tulkas rises from his throne like a golden flame that lengthens in the form of a sword.

Fingolfin breaks free of his half-brother’s arm and moves to protect him, awaiting the attack, curving his back like a stalking feline.

"Finwë's son will not die on this day."

Námo's icy voice stops time. The Judge glides without feet on the frozen stones, like a mist coming from the Other Side.

Fingolfin follows the Vala's silent movement with his eyes, alert. The black hood reveals a white, stark smile.

"The House of Finwë stands against our Laws on this day," continues the Vala. “One and a thousand times. In one and thousand ways. May Ilúvatar punish them ... and may steel always accompany them.”

Fingolfin doesn't understand when Námo goes back - just a smile floating in the air. He only knows that somehow he has found time to leave, to save Fëanor, to draw him away from the wrath of the Valar once again. When they are in Tirion, they will think of something else. When they are on the Edge, away from Manwë and Varda, they will plot a plan ... because he is sure that Fëanor has not thought beyond this act of rebellion, he is sure that Fëanor has not thought at all.

Fingolfin pushes his half-brother back to the palanquin. Behind them, the power still creaks and grinds, the promise of death thickens the air.

When the palanquin rises, Fingolfin turns to Fëanor and opens his mouth to scream.

Fëanor lunges at him, cutting his words with his lips, drinking his breath.

"Nothing is going to separate us now," he promises, raging, hungry. “We will destroy the gods and conquer the world. You and I. Together forever. Free.”

"Shut up," Fingolfin orders, eyes wild with pain. “I never ... I would have preferred that they kill me, that they take out my heart with their hands rather than see you ... Why, Curufinwë? Why?”

"Because it is the only way we can be free. Our wings tied us to them, to their laws, to their lies ... Now ... now they can no longer control us. They are no longer our masters, Nolvo.”

"But you ... If you wanted to leave so much, you shouldn't have given up your essence. You didn't have to ...”

"I had, yes! The Eldar are the slaves of the Valar; but we don't. We are the owners of our destiny. Can't you see, my love? Can't you see that now nothing will stop us? Are you afraid?” He softens the tone when perceiving the anguished look of the youngest and with tenderness, caresses his temples before digging his fingers into his hair. “You have no reason to fear, my love ...”

"I am afraid, Fëanáro, that you have not thought this," confesses Fingolfin. “I'm afraid to see how you lose yourself, how you consume yourself, ceasing to be you. I am afraid you have made a decision that cost me to lose you.”

“Never. With you by my side, I will never regret this decision.”

He slides his hands down Fingolfin's smooth back, calmly, imagining ...

The palanquin stops with a jerk and Fingolfin stiffens in the embrace of his brother and lover. Before Fëanor reacts, he's already on his feet, jumping to the door as his hand reaches for the sword.

Before them is the Noldorin Navy Flagship. Behind him, other houses’ ships row placidly; but Fingolfin senses the half-open hatches, the ready muzzles, the banners too high to inspire calm. An army awaits them.

The prince takes a breath. Have the sons of Fëanor yielded to the pressure of the Valar? Ridiculous! The idea makes him laugh and as if listening to his doubts, a figure appears on the railing.

"Get the palanquin up here!" Maedhros orders the guards.

Fingolfin jumps down on deck and turns in place, bewildered.

Dozens of elves gather on the deck of the Flagship. His nephews, his children, his sister, Glorfindel, Erestor, Ecthelion ... With his breath caught in his throat, he turns to Fëanor.

They stare at each other and a scream of pain, rage, love ... tears at Fingolfin's chest.

Fëanor opens his arms for him to collapse.

"We healers have had a lot of work," Lalwen declares calmly. “Removing the chains that tied us to the Valar.”

Elves seem strangely fragile without their wings; but even as he cries in his brother's arms, Fingolfin knows that that is just an illusion.


	10. Epilogue

It is an elf. He recognizes it even in the soft light of twilight. The black hair is tightly braided and tied back in a high ponytail. A strip of blue paint borders his eyes and the armor molds to a slim, stringy body, like a young tree.

He’s beautiful, as elves tend to be; but there is something different about him. It may be the way he moves to get to the top of the cliff, or the way his eyes flash more than the stars in the dark, or the way he stands there, as if the world belonged to him: the truth is that he does not look like any elf it saw before.

However, what most attract its attention are the pieces that he carries on his back. They have the shape of wings and in the light of the beginning of the night, they shine like polished diamonds. It is steel, the creature understands when the elf leans forward and a flash flutters on the metal.

The elf jumps into the void.

With a groan of bewilderment, it lunges out of the bushes; but stops when it discovers another elf on the edge of the cliff. He leans into the void, his whole body tense, his mouth open in a cry of impatience and anguish that suddenly turns into a howl of euphoria.

From the precipice a buzz that bristles the creature's back arises and forces it to retreat behind the bushes; but it keeps watching as the elf with the metal wings rises above the cliff and shoots up into the sky, like a shooting star.

On the ground, the other elf screams and howls, maddened with joy until his partner descends and cautiously, perches on the ground, losing his balance.

He watches them hug and kiss each other with laughter and before they get gooey, the wolf jumps out of hiding and plunges into the darkness of the forest.

Slipping through the crack in the rock and in the light of the torches, the wolf's body melts into shadow to readjust into the tall, winged figure of a god with red hair and golden eyes.

"Mairon," says the thick, dark voice.

Mairon smiles a smile of silk and poison as he glides to the iron throne.

"Oh my lord," he hums softly as he sits down on the arm of the seat, leaning over the Dark God shoulder. “Today I have witnessed a prodigy.”

“Prodigy?” Morgoth laughs, and the silmarils cast a sinister light on the scars on his face. “Is there anything that can surprise Mairon, the most powerful of craftsmen?”

"I have seen the rebels, my lord."

"The exiles from Aman, you mean. Those who are no longer Eldar.”

"They don't need it, my dear lord," Mairon shrugs and leans against his master like a cat, flapping his wings of fire for a moment. “They have built wings, my lord; wings with which they could reach the throne of Manwë and tear off his crown.”

Mairon feels the Vala tighten and smiles more broadly - like a cat that could see the future, a future with steel wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end. Or maybe the beginning. 
> 
> I'm thinking that I should have called this 'Prelude of a rebellion'.


End file.
